To Señora With Amor: TEFL Teachers, Should You Be Dating Your Students?

Never dated any of them, but they were hi-larious! Suffered crying-laughing-gotta-leave-the-room jags every class.

I started dating Peter the Catalan on the last night of the year's final trimester. Up until he showed up at the summer staff party, we had just been exchanging heated, lingering glances in the school hallways and library. "My student likes you," one of my colleagues tattled one day. I knew exactly who he was talking about. Peter the Catalan with his perfect green eyes and blondish hair and starched shirts and pink ties. "Really? Which student?", I said like I hadn't been watching him too. "The guy with the blonde hair and ties," my colleague specified. "He likes you likes you". Peter the Catalan officially introduced himself on that [very scandalous] night and thus began my first summer amongst Barcelona's upper echelons. I spent St. Juan at a party in a mansion in Tibidabo and Sundays at the country club reading by the pool while he played tennis; date nights at this amazing Italian spot tucked away in Sarriá that I will never ever write about for fear of ruining it with travelers. That white hot summer culminated in a trip to the Hospital del Mar for the morning after pill. Can't say I regret that summer. Well, only for a brief moment at the beginning of the Fall semester, when it looked entirely possible that he might be in my class. It seems he left the school--I never saw him again after I ended it more than 2 years ago.

Browsing the magazine section at the huge FNAC in the city center last Thursday, I heard my name and turned to look right into a similar pair of gorgeous green eyes and dirty blonde hair. I hate seeing exes and prefer to think that after me, a part of them dies. Okay, that's not quite right. I like to think that they die.* Good thing this wasn't Peter the Catalan, but an equally "cutest boy in the band" type student from last semester. I gave him a big hug. Chatted with him in Spanish for the first time, genuinely happy to see him. "I was so mad at myself that I didn't get your phone number before the end of the trimester," he said. "Ieishah, I want to see you again..."

There's nothing more awkward than realizing your student has the hots for you. Like that time another suited up student asked, "Do you work out? I can see the muscles in your legs through your jeans," in front of the whole damn class. Adults get less and less teachable as the years go by. And that teachable quotient, paradoxically, drops when you add sex and emotions to it. I've even had to drop straight female students once we got too close. So how smart is it to become personally involved with students?

My TEFL course included a few sessions with a career counselor. The first session began with notes on how to write a TEFL friendly resume, and ended with the counselor telling us about how many people she knew who ended up marrying students. It was something like, "ALL of my co-workers ended up marrying former students!". If you're teaching grown ass men and women, it stands to reason that you'll encounter people worthy of your after-hours.

Dinner with Intensive course students in '08. Another great group I never dated.

Teaching adults can bring all kinds of characters into your life, savory and unsavory. Especially in a language class. Most students are professionals: I've taught (and summarily flirted with) a Michelin-starred chef, the CEO of a shoe company, writers, waiters, and ballers, all who've come to class to add English fluency to their list of resume skills. I don't think there's any other job you could have abroad where you'll meet locals from all over the social spectrum. Not to mention one where the groundwork for a friendship is laid by about halfway through the very first class. If you're the kind of teacher who believes in making learning personal and encouraging above all, conversation, you'll have all those soul-draining getting-to-know-you details out of the way well before the first date.

I say go for it, within limits. Never date a current student. Even if they ask. And even if they're hella funny and cute and offer to take you on motorcycle rides through Extremadura. (Not that that happened.) Also, I'd err on the side of caution in making the first move. Students know you're in a foreign country, building your life from scratch. In my experience they don't hesitate to invite you out for a coffee, under the guise of practicing their English, of course. You may want to make a habit of offering your email to all of your students at the end of a class. This mitigates the awkwardness of singling out the hot ones. Or if you live in a city as small and intimate as Barcelona, you could just wait to run into them in a random cafe some day.

*I don't really mean die. Perhaps 'cease to exist'.

Transcendence, Team RiRi y los 73 Retratos

Our constant craving for evolution and transcendence, especially with regard to our personal circumstances and actions, is the most lucid evidence we have of ourselves as spiritual beings on a human, flesh and blood, brick and mortar journey. When we say we want to "just get past" or "move beyond" something we're not just talking temporally. Time continues it's monotonous march forward whether we fucking like it or not. There's a part of "getting past" something that's about memory and how it connects to emotion. For the most part, you ain't moved past something if the memory of it elicits an emotional response. A pain. A pang. A flip in the gut. A lump in the throat. A chair through a window. No one has gotten past Chris Brown's beating of Rihanna. Not even Chris Brown.

Naomi Williams, an acquaintance I'd met through my flatmate during my first year in Barcelona, approached me at a wedding reception and asked if I'd participate in her photo project on domestic violence, La Próxima Eres Tu. The twisted irony of where this conversation took place is not lost on me. No portent, there. The couple is beautiful. Nevertheless, Spain lost 73 women to domestic violence incidents in 2010. Naomi wanted to dedicate a portrait to each one. The idea came to her like so many of mine come to me: over coffee. "I don't know...I was just reading the newspaper one day--this is when the number was still at 60-something--and I just thought, this is ridiculous! I want to do something," the Dutch/Dutch Caribbean native says of her inspiration.  Naomi told El Periodico, "The idea is to let people know that they have to act quickly, that if they see signs of domestic violence in a neighbor or loved one's home, they should ask about it, take action...", as there's no moving beyond without it.

In Spain, 68% of all murders are domestic violence-related. Whatever the numbers are for the States, in the end, we're still talking about the Chris Brown-Rihanna incident because people die at the hands of loved ones. And far too often.

The exhibit opened last Friday at Galeria Cosmo on Enric Granados, featuring 30 of the portraits taken. Each captured qualities that comprise relationship, ranging from conflict and rage to trust and bond. I appeared in two portraits and only regret that I didn't take a moment to dedicate the photo shoot to the two fallen women in whose honor those portraits were being taken, send up a prayer for the domestic violence survivors I've personally known across the 3 continents I've lived on, or at least play some Ri-Ri.

If you're in Barcelona, check out La Próxima Eres Tu at the Centro Cívico Guinardo from April 8th-19th.

Mala Rodriguez @ Cabaret Berlin

Mala Rodriguez in Barcelona from ieishah clelland on Vimeo.


Even Andalusian rapper Mala Rodriguez admits that when it comes to Spanish rap no hay mucho. Last year's Latin Grammy winner for Song of the year admitted as much last night at Cabaret Berlin in Barcelona. Still somehow La Mala managed to complete her 2-hour DJ set for Golfostar's Spanish Joint, a party dedicated exclusively to rap in español without the help of even one English language joint. Or any Pitbull!! (Also they've had this party more than once!!!) Immediately upon entering I started thinking to myself, what's that one Spanish language tune that's going to have everyone's hands in the air? That everyone's going to be losing their minds over and touching the sky? Turns out that as far as Spain's concerned, the closest thing Spanish rap has got to a you-must-know-the-words classic is La Niña, by Mala herself. Mala blessed us with a little impromptu performance last night even though she wasn't being paid. Genial.

Lunching With the Stars at the Guggenheim Bilbao

Believe the hype about the Guggenheim Bilbao, built in 1997 by Frank Ghery. Well, believe the hype if you don't live in Spain. For 3 years, my Catalan friends (don't be offended, y'all!) have slandered that museum. I'd heard everything. "It's the only thing to see in the neighborhood," "They just plopped it in the middle of a slum," and the worst: "That building is disgusting!!". (Seriously. And if you can find a better translation for asqueroso, let me know. I'll amend.)

Frank Ghery famously sketched the design for the Guggenheim Bilbao on the back of an envelope in pencil, not lifting it until he was finished. The result is a playful, dancing creation that works even better from the inside. What look like random curves and awkward protrusions from the outside make for organically-formed installation nooks. Keep your contrived walls and square corners. Gimme the Guggenheim.

Our original plan was to sample executive chef Martín Berasategui's dinner menu at the Michelin starred restaurant housed in the museum, but upon hearing that the lunch menu was a quarter of the price, well....

To tell you the truth, overall, it looked better than it tasted. The eggplant stuffed with mushrooms and Bechamel I ordered for a starter had us singing such praises, the waitress ended up gifting us another. Though my little balls of bacalao in tomato sauce were a disappointment (no one does bacalao like in the Caribbean, Spanish and English speaking) Hollywood's mushroom filled tomatito over squid ink risotto was stellar. Good wine selection, great presentation, and an understated but scrumptious chocolate desert, I can't say that I wouldn't go back.

Go to the Guggenheim, however, for the art. The contemporary wing hosts a great mix of pop art and grand interactive installations that engage you as both viewer and participant. I'm gonna hope for your sake you make it while "Stillness (in 3 movements)", UK artist Tacita Dean's somber, brilliant multimedia tribute to late modern dance legend, Merce Cunningham, is still on.

In a word, the surrounding neighborhood is tony. Hotels, shoe shops, high end bakeries, and a short walk away from Gran Vía, where you can find the oldest cafés and more shopping. The Guggenheim is the what-to-see in Bilbao, but the entire city seems to have polished up to match the museum's titanium shine.




Michelin star, cafeteria-style at the Guggenheim Bilbao.



Mushroom and Bechamel-filled eggplant.



Bacalao balls.



Tomatito over squid ink risotto.



...filled with mushroom...so yummy.



Fuck if I know. Flan??


Chocolate bizcocho and honey ice cream.



I almost jacked this Almodóvar cup. Almost.

Tips:

* From the Guggenheim Bilbao, catch the nearby tram to the Casco Viejo (the oldest part of the city). It's a great way to get the lay of the land and make a full day of it.

* The six-course dinner is actually only 75 euros per person. But you can still say you've eaten at the Guggenheim for 20 euros at lunch. Make reservations in advance.

* Check the website for special events happening while you're in town. There are big monthly museum night parties at the Guggenheim showcasing famous DJ's from around the world. We missed it by a week, but it sounds like it could be a classic night out with cool locals!

Interview: M.O.P. in Barcelona

Peace to BeatCN for making this possible!

Ashanti Does Georgetown

Ashanti does Georgetown from ieishah clelland on Vimeo.

I still don't know how I feel about Beyonce blackening up for L'Officiel's Fela tribute. Frankly, as someone who blackened up (digitally) once before, I do understand the impulse to do it for 'art'. What I can say, is that Beyonce has been moving towards Africa since the day she went solo.

First, she went islandista on us in "Baby Boy", featuring Sean Paul. Come to think of it, she was already in Africa in this video, via the Middle Eastern Belly Dance sequence. And it's not just about that single. Her whole style of movement, with the emphasis on the waistline, took on a Caribbean flavor. Vybez Kartel would pay homage to this in '08's Beyonce Wine. (If Beyonce were Jamaican, like Vybez Kartel, the issue of whether or not she bleaches her skin would be a non-issue. At the very least, a curiosity. She fair, eee? She ah bleach 'ar skin or som'm? Cho... Pass me some ackee...) And when Beyonce performed in Barcelona, "Baby Boy" segued into a not half bad cover of Sister Nancy's reggae classic, "No No No".

If B played at Caribbean on her first solo album, she went full on motherland on her second, B'Day. Remember the African dance sequence in "Deja Vu"? What was that dancing?, many thought. She look crazy!, others thought. Meanwhile, there's B, in a grass-like skirt, Josephine Baker-ing her peers right out of the game.

It's no accident that Rihanna, herself from Barbados, was one of the only songstresses to survive the slaughter.

Trace the trajectory, and it's not really a surprise, the whole blackening up and becoming African thing.

Then there's Ashanti. 'Foolish' put her in the Guinness Book of World Records for the most weeks spent at the top of chart for a female artist. She was major. Until Beyonce Josephine Baker'd her right out of the game.

Christmas night 2010. Georgetown, Guyana. I didn't know what to expect from Ashanti. What I never could have predicted, was her performing barefoot to soca music in a Guyana flag catsuit. But it happened. Got the video to prove it.

I say, if she's going to have any chance at a comeback, she should probably never take it off.

QUICK: Who Was the First Man to Successfully Complete a Trip Around the World?

No idea, huh? Most travelers think it's them. I found the answer, however, when I least expected it in the village of the old surfer outside my hotel in Bilbao: Getaria.

Take the EuskoTrain just 25-30 minutes outside of San Sebastian, and you're at Arautz, a pretty little beach town where the waves look "just like in California" according to some song, the name of which I've forgotten. There's very little to see in Arautz, itself, unless you're in the middle of the international surf competition the village hosts yearly. Hell, if you are a surfer, Arautz is the place in Spain to be, not Barcelona. The Atlantic Ocean trumps the Mediterranean sea for waves any day.

A short car ride, or long walk along the mountainside, and you'll end up in Getaria. Old Surfer Guy only scratched the surface of the incredible stories Getaria has to tell. Legendary clothing designer, Balenciaga was born there. A museum is in the process of being built in his honor as we speak. Also, it's the place Juan Sebastian Elkano called home, before he set off to become the first man to successfully complete a trip around the world---



Actually, what Elkano did was a 'circumnavigation' of the globe. Also, he became the first as Magellan's 2nd in command. When Magellan was killed in a clash with Filipinos, Elkano did the honors. Good story, and I really am trying to be as excited as the locals are about it. But colonialism looms here. Makes me wanna holler. I mean, why would they be fighting Filipinos? I'm just going to go ahead and talk about the food...

We had the pleasure of being accompanied by Daniel, who grew up in the area, moved to Barcelona as a youth, but recently moved back for work. So though I'm sure there are at least a handful of fab restaurants in Getaria, I'm confident we ate at the best, the Mayflower, perched right on a bluff overlooking the water. Servers of the freshest fish I've ever eaten. Ever.

Start with a bottle of txacoli, regional white wine. This one was made with Chardonnay grapes. Ask before you order, there are txacolis less sweet.

Even on a chilly Sunday, the fish is minimally spiced (a dash of salt, spritz of lemon, diced roasted onion and garlic) and cooked on an asador, an outdoor grill.


We shared octopus, prawns, a few whole fish, and a basket of fresh bread. Really, you can order any fish on the menu, and win, but we had this guy, the turbot. The flesh along the spine is the tastiest.


Here's what he looks like in the market. In case you were wondering.


Normally, I don't do shrimp with the head still on. But the food was just so good...





Built on mountainous terrain, you navigate Getaria via hidden staircases and sloping tunnels. Somehow, no matter how high we went or where we turned, the water was visible.

6 Things You Should Know Before Pintxo Bar Hopping in the Basque Country

Pintxos in the Basque Country. Sacred like communion in the temple. Even on a gray, rainy Saturday in Bilbao's Casco Viejo, or old town, groups of friends, couples, families, are hopping from tavern to tavern or, berria to berria, scarfing down a pintxo or two, swigging glasses of rioja or txacoli and moving on in the time it took me to take even one of the photographs in this post. Berria hopping would start daily at about 2, 2:30, lunchtime or la hora de comer, and consisted of running the streets, sampling new tastes and savoring old favorites until I felt my belly about to burst. Learning only later in the trip that on the weekend, the Euskal actually have pintxos and wine at 3 or 4 stops, THEN head to dinner afterwards!! Lunch often left me with a sense of satisfaction so palpable that dinner was unthinkable.

There's a science to berria hopping in the Basque Country. A way to do that shit. I wasn't really ready. But you can be. If you're going to the Basque Country, like so many do, to partake of pintxos, pintxos y más pintxos, here are six things you should know going in...

1. Forgo the bread. Bread's just going to fill you up (with empty calories I might add) and limit the amount of fish, prawns, blue cheese, olives, octopus, Iberian ham, and other goodies you can taste. Just lift the goodies up off those hunks of carb, knife...fork...attack! Leaving the bread behind may seem strange to some locals, but this way you can enjoy as many tapas as possible. Now like every rule, this one has it's exception. If the bread's been toasted in olive oil, eat the thing. Or if the pintxo itself leaks any type of yummy buttery, tomato or garlic juices on the your plate, well, you have no other choice but to sop it up.




2. One word: zurita. I'm a lightweight, and normally don't drink much alcohol. But when you're eating your way through the old town, surrounded by locals and centuries old churches, you cannot order a fucking Coke. Drinking wine all afternoon would have me snoozing on the bar in no time, so I went with beer. Except, I kept forgetting the word for 'small beer' in the Basque Country, having never heard this word used in Catalonia or Andalusia. So bartenders kept bringing me pints. If you're a drinker who can hit six bars in the space of two hours and have a pint in each one, bottoms up. For the rest of us non-alcoholics, the word for small beer is zurita. Say it with me: thu-rrrreeee-tah. Zurita. Otherwise, you'll be smashed before you hit the 3rd berria.

4. Ask the bartender. You're standing in front of the bar, every available space covered by a plate of something you have never seen before. What to choose? It's not about just asking, 'What is this?' A rundown of the ingredients won't necessarily tell you anything, especially if you're not accustomed to Spanish food. Ask the bartender, or really, anyone else who may be standing around: ¿Cual me recommiendas?  ¿Cual es tu favorito? or What do you recommend? Which one is your favorite? The Basque take great pride in their gastronomic superiority, and will be happy to steer you in the right direction. If you're sweet, smiley and dare I say flirty enough, the bartender may even gift you their fave pintxo, as happened to us more than once!

5. Take a mornin' pintxo. Most places put out tapas at 10am, so the food you see at 2:30 is the food that's been there, juicy, FRESH, for hours. You may not want to be eating anchovies, or super fishy, vinegar-y things straight out the gate, but a just-made Spanish tortilla, smoked salmon, or Iberian ham pintxo with your cafe con leche is a veritable Basque breakfast of champions.

5. Don't be put off by all the crap on the floor. My very first Basque berria, El Huevo Berria, looks completely normal from the outside. Even sleek. Lots of glass and chrome. A jukebox. Specials scrawled on a chalkboard. Two dark-haired, pale-skinned, pierced women serving a just-after-lunch crew. The place looked so moderna, imagine my surprise to see a guy swallow a pintxo, wipe his mouth on a little white napkin, crumple it up, and drop it right where he stood. I looked down, the floor was covered with dirty little napkins. I put my feet up on the stool, resolved not to look down, and got to 'pinching'. Looked at it as a twist on the sawdust covered bar floor phenomenon. It's just the custom.



6.  Eat fearlessly, but also don't be afraid to not eat shit you simply don't want to. I, for one, think it's lame to eat a cow's ear just to say you ate a cow's ear, and don't believe you can eat your way to being adventurous, exotic, or cool. You are adventurous, exotic, and cool or you're not. Nothing you eat is gonna change that. Eat what will please you. That's what this is about--pleasure. Decadence, even. Don't be afraid to try new things, but nothing cuts a berria crawl short quite like biting into something that leaves a bad taste in your mouth. Eat what you like, like what you eat. Salud! And speaking of adventurous eating...

Behold morcilla! Pig's blood soaked rice, stuffed into pig intestine and boiled, if I can remember correctly. It's also made in Guyana. We call it Black Pudding. Sounds gross, but it's oh so tasty. Imagine my surprise to see it in Spain. Food and colonialism... 

Bilbao! Men In Hats!

As a young man, the very old man smiling at us and slurring his words surfed and waited tables in a little fishing village called Getaria, centuries ago, it seemed. Getaria is where Hollywood and I would end up lunching like kings only days later. But that morning, 10 or 11 am, fresh off the airplane, the former surfer-waiter sat drinking coffee and reminiscing with an old friend, a more lucid man wearing a txapela, his cane leaning against the silver metal table of our hotel's outdoor cafe. He knew the story his surfer-waiter friend was struggling to impart to us.

He'd heard it before. The one where General Franco came to Getaria on one of his dictatorial visits to the Basque Country. Sometime in the 40's or 50's.

"He is saying that he gave Franco the part of the fish with the most bones," the lucid one laughed, then said of his friend, under his breath, "He is hallucinating a bit, but it's true."

He continues, paraphrasing:

"And then, he put a teaspoon of salt in Franco's wine."

We laughed politely, wondering if they weren't exaggerating. Wincing when they referenced Guernica, the Basque village bombed all to hell by Franco during the Civil War that brought him to power and the subject of Picasso's famous painting. Until that moment, I didn't know that men in the Basque Country actually wore those hats.

Txapelas are those beret-type hats you always see ETA members rocking on Interpol "Wanted" posters in the airport...or Frenchmen in classic French films. Could've sworn there was a picture somewhere of Picasso wearing one, and find it fitting, the txapela's linguistic proximity to the French chapeau.



The rest of the trip was spent in search of the perfect "Man Wearing Txapela" shot. Loved this guy. He agreed to having his photo taken and was so cool about how damn cool it came out. When we showed it to him he said, "Well, it looks like me", which is even cooler in Spanish: "Bueno... como soy".



Imagine these men in 1975, nearly middle aged, taking their txapelas out of boxes hidden away in attics, dusting them off, and donning them proudly in the streets for the first time.


There is something about the attainment of freedom that's profoundly relatable, even if one simply gestures towards it, like with the tip of a hat.

There's lots to say about the Basque Country. The food, the architecture, the Guggenheim, which I'll unfold in a series of photo posts over the next few days.